Aye. It must be twenty- seven years since we met.' He pumped Rampling's hand and waited with interest for his response. To do him justice, it was high quality. 'How're you doing, Mr Dalziel?' he said.
'I saw your picture in the paper this morning and thought: I wonder, could that be the same? Lot of water under the bridge, huh? We were both a lot younger then. You over here on business or pleasure?'
'Pleasure mainly, I hope,' said Dalziel. 'Not here, of course. I mean, you don't come to these places for pleasure, do you? No, I'm just paying a quick visit here.' He caught a momentary shift of the eyes towards Ms Amalfi and in the plate glass door he saw her minute shake of the head. Also through the door he spotted a couple of wedge-shaped men staring at him like Dobermans and remembered that Rampling was a very important person. 'I'm sorry I don't have more time to talk now, Mr Dalziel,' said Rampling. ‘I'm visiting a sick colleague, then I've got a couple of meetings. But it would be good to talk to you about old times. Tell you what, why don't I give you a ring if I can see my way clear to having a quiet drink with you before I head back to Washington?' 'That'd be grand,' said Dalziel with maximum effusion. 'I hear you're up for a top job. Congratulations.' 'That's kind of you.
Goodbye for now, Mr Dalziel.' He made for the door leading to the clinic's interior. Ms Amalfi followed, pausing to glance back at Dalziel who stood at the exit door buttoning up his coat in preparation for the pelting rain. He smiled and waved. 'Bye-bye, Missus. And thanks.' Then he went out. Satisfied, she followed Rampling. Dalziel came back in. 'Sorry,' he said to the receptionist.
'Something I forgot to say to Scott, to Mr Rampling. How long will he be staying, do you know?' He didn't doubt that once the fearsome Ms Amalfi had a word with her, he'd be Public Enemy Number One, but for the moment he was banking on being sanitized in her eyes by his evident familiarity with someone like Rampling. 'It shouldn't be too long,' said the woman. 'Mr Bellmain's on a fifteen-minute visit cycle.' 'Bad as that?' said Dalziel. 'Poor sod. Get a lot of visits, does he? Family? Friends?' It was a clumsy try. She said coolly, 'Would you like to leave a message for Mr Rampling?' 'Aye. Tell him he forgot to ask the name of my hotel.' He wrote it down. It was, he suspected, surplus to requirements. He went out again, passing the two protectors who looked at him with grave suspicion. 'Tumns in, chests out, lads,' he said. 'You never know who's watching.' A cab pulled up and a rather dumpy woman got out, her face well concealed behind dark glasses and a turned-up Cossack collar. Dalziel was too busy making sure he got into the cab to pay her much heed, but a certain familiarity nagged at him as she walked past the two men with a nod.
An old film star perhaps? He gave the address of Waggs's apartment.
'And drive like I'm a flask of nitro-glycerine,' he said. 'Hey?' said the man uncomprehendingly. Dalziel looked at the name on the identity card. It had about fifty letters, most of them consonants. He said, 'Please yourself, sunshine.' When he got out at his destination, he felt as happy as a round-the-world sailor to feel solid land beneath his feet. He half-expected to find Linda Steele lurking, but if she was, she was making a good job of it. What he did see was Cissy Kohler striding along the pavement, trailing more spray than a waterskier. He hesitated only a moment before deciding what to do. A crook out on licence was still a crook, and a cop off on leave was still a cop. Not even cars driving on the wrong side of the street altered that relationship, though they did remind him he ought to tread a little more lightly than on the sidewalks of Mid-Yorkshire. So he slapped his hand on her shoulder with only enough force to bruise her collarbone, not to break it. He was surprised that she put up no resistance. Like Rampling, she clearly recognized him but that was no reason. On the contrary, he'd have thought. Perhaps she knew that Waggs and a couple of Hesperides heavies were waiting in the flat? But there was no sound as they entered and it felt empty. She turned to face him and he saw her clearly for the first time. Prison had pared her to the bone. His glimpse of her on television hadn't conveyed to him the full extent of the change. It wasn't just a question of three decades of ageing, there was simply nothing left of the young woman whose world had come to an end in 1963. Except perhaps for the eyes. They were regarding him now with the same empty blankness, like windows in a derelict house, that he recalled as he'd burst to the surface with the lifeless body of Westropp's daughter in his arms. There'd been water running down her face then and there was water running there now, dripping from her cheeks and chin on to the expensive carpet. 'Get yourself dried,' he said harshly. 'I can't abide a wet woman.' 'It's a matter of taste,' she said enigmatically. But she headed for the bathroom. He heard the door being locked, then the shower started up. This suited him nicely. He did a quick turn round the living-room and found nothing of interest. He pushed open a door. A bedroom. In the wardrobe male clothes only. So she and Waggs weren't kissing cousins. In fact, from the way she'd clutched her Bible at the press conference, he guessed she'd sublimated all that stuff, and any notion of guilt along with it most likely. Waggs travelled light or was a very careful man.
He passed on to the other bedroom. It looked even barer with little that was feminine in sight, but the Bible on the counterpane told him it was Kohler's. Searching was easy because there was next to nothing to search. He heard the bathroom door open but he didn't move. He had no objection to her finding him in here. In fact it was probably a good thing to establish their relationship from the start. Cop and criminal. Not all the religion in the world was going to change that.
There were footsteps behind him. He didn't turn, waited for her indignant protest, readied himself for his crushing response. Then it occurred to him that he could still hear the distant shower. No louder, still running. It hadn't been the bathroom door. The thought dead-heated with the blow, which was either very expert or very lucky as it caught him at precisely the right point on the stem of his neck to switch off all the juice running between his mind and his muscles.
He fell heavily across the bed, still conscious in the way that a man who has drunk a couple of bottles of Scotch might be still conscious.
His senses struggled to maintain a limited service. Touch had gone completely; he could feel nothing. Smell, taste and sight were occupied by the counterpane up against which his nose and mouth were pressed, giving his eyes about an inch of focus which wasn't enough.
Hearing was faint and intermittent, like a patrol radio in a dead area. Two voices. A man's. A woman's. HERS:… what… hell.
.. you done… His:… found… here… thought… burg… HERS:… in papers… at Hall… waiting… I..
. to clinic… His:… Almighty… why… told you… what… HERS:…n't let… your name… no diff… thought … said… His:… yeah… Ciss… ruined… thing.
.. back… tell… William… afternoon… HERS:… sure… home… day… HIS:… sure… grab… quick… way… burg… wakes… H ERS:… all right..
. doc… His:… fine… side… barn… move… of here…
Reception was fading. Perhaps all it required was a slight adjustment of aerial direction. He tried to move his head and straightaway went spiralling into a darkness where the only signals were meaningless bleeps from long dead stars, and, beyond them, silence.
SEVEN
'Not a theory; it was a fancy.'
Peter Pascoe read the letter for the tenth time. It was unheaded except for the date, 3 September 1976.
Dear Miss Kohler,
Your letter has reached me, reviving memories of a pain I would rather have forgotten. My first instinct was to ignore completely what you had written, it smacked so much of a mind driven to desperate self-delusion by all those years in prison. But in case silence should be interpreted however insanely as affirmation, I will make this one effort at communication.